


Grow Old With Me

by inherownwrite



Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Domestic Bliss, Dreams, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Romance, Scotland
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-15
Updated: 2021-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-23 07:54:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30052296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inherownwrite/pseuds/inherownwrite
Summary: Paul breaks his arm, and John panics.
Relationships: John Lennon/Paul McCartney
Comments: 19
Kudos: 54





	Grow Old With Me

**Author's Note:**

> Or: the one in which John and Paul find their peace in Scotland.
> 
> Thank you very much to the lovely and insightful [Daisy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unchained_Daisychain/profile) for her edits and feedback! Title is from John Lennon's song "Grow Old with Me." 
> 
> The story is premised on three main ideas that I wanted to explore: 1) the inherent romance of a Scottish farm by the sea, 2) farmer! husbands being domestic and sickeningly in love, 3) what a mature relationship between John and Paul could have looked like outside of the Beatle spotlight.
> 
> Thank you for reading!

** High Park Farm, 1989 **

Paul traced the grooves of John’s face with the pad of his thumb. His skin was warm to the touch, fair and sleep-soft, though slightly creased where it was smushed against the pillow. Paul suppressed a smile. After thirty years of knowing such a daft face, and nearly just as long loving it, the wrinkles and lines and patches of stubble seemed to detail the sum of their lives together, leading to the one place where they always found themselves: in bed. If he closed his eyes, he could almost imagine that they were in any number of bedrooms around the world — in Mendips, in Forthlin, in Paris. Paul could close his eyes and let the memories sweep over him, but he chose not to. He quite liked where he was, cataloging John’s laugh lines and the crow’s feet beside his eyes. Paul took pride in the thought that he was the one who had put them there. 

Carefully peeling back the duvet, he clambered to his feet. The hardwood floors were a shock of cold against his toes. He dressed silently, pulling on a thick knitted jumper and the slippers that John teased him mercilessly for wearing, telling him that he looked like a feckin’ lonely old man from Liverpool. “Arl fella McCartney!” he’d crowed when he’d first seen them. “Shall I fetch your pipe and subscription to the Daily Post, then?”

Behind his bravado, Paul knew that John was dead terrified of growing old and square, but he was personally quite looking forward to turning fifty, sixty, and then sweet sixty-four, ta very much. Life after fame and the Beatles had turned out a bit alright for him. Confronted with John taking the mick, he always sniffed and said that he liked his slippers, that they kept him warm on their drafty farm, and if he was an old man then what did that make John? John, the randy bastard that he still was, just suggested that there were plenty of other ways to warm up that involved a lot less clothing, and Paul soon forgot the argument altogether. 

He was grateful for the comfort on chilly Scottish mornings such as this one, when the wind seemed to blow from the sea straight through the walls of their old farmhouse. Paul shivered lightly as he tiptoed ‘round to John’s side of the bed, pressing a dry, chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. He slumbered on, oblivious, and Paul watched him fondly for a few more moments before gently closing the bedroom door behind him. Over the years they had fallen into a semblance of a routine, and Paul relished the early morning silence that preceded the banging and clattering that normally followed John wherever he went. Martha was already up and padding about, an early morning riser like he was, and he scrubbed her behind her ears as he set the kettle to boil. 

He wrapped a tattered old scarf around his neck — a Christmas pressie from Julian a few months earlier — and greeted the crisp countryside air. It was a silent morning, the kind where even the birds seemed to still be sleeping, and Paul fancied that he could hear the crash of the sea against the distant shoreline. By contrast, Martha was a whirl of shaggy fur around his feet, pleased that her human had finally awoken to take her to see her beloved sheep. “Careful, silly girl,” he scolded. “You’re much too old to be havin' this much energy.”

John and Paul kept their sheep in a large, fenced-off pasture a few minutes' walk from their house. If Paul were honest, he was a little embarrassed about the state of them. Rather than sending them off to the knacker’s when they became too old to give wool, he and John tried to give them a good retirement, preferring to let them die naturally of old age than have them needlessly slaughtered. As a consequence, they were a little less fluffy than the neighbours’ sheep, a little more brown and a lot more raggedy. “Like Mimi’s grotty tea cozies,” John sighed, but Paul knew that he was just as soft for them as he was. They mostly stuck to a vegetarian diet, these days, and only ate animal products when they could do so guilt-free. John liked to buy local milk for his morning cornflakes, and Edith, their spritely 80-year-old neighbour, often tottered down their driveway to trade her eggs for sunny afternoons of tea and conversation, which suited John and Paul just fine. They enjoyed the life that they had carved out for themselves, nestled in the heart of the Scottish countryside, where they were free to live however they pleased. 

Letting Martha carry out her daily inspection of the sheep, Paul heaved open the barn door to fetch their breakfast: hay and water. Their two barn cats, Pyramus and Thisbe, mewed out a startled greeting as the pale yellow light poured in, twined together on their favourite bale of hay. “Ay up!” he called, hoisting two barrels of water. “Had a good sleep, did ye?” Two pairs of eyes merely blinked at him, clearly unamused. 

Although they were named as an ode to their Beatle days, they showed allegiance mainly to John, who doted on them incessantly. “Where’s _my_ cuddle?” Paul had protested more than once, when John had his nose buried in a book and a lapful of feline. “Wait yer turn,” John replied cheekily, his eyes crinkling at the corners as Thisbe curled possessively closer, looking at Paul in the smug, gloating way that only cats have. 

Paul finished watering the sheep and then tossed them their allotment of hay, his feet slipping slightly on the dewy morning grass. Martha was constantly underfoot, tongue lolling and tail wagging, in rare form as she supervised the proceedings. Her soft bark suddenly drew his attention to one of the smaller sheep, who had apparently gotten stuck in some mud near the fenceline. He clambered over the rickety wooden gate as it watched him with large, pitiful eyes, his bones creaking slightly in protest. It was only when he came closer that he realized how muddy the paddock actually was. Martha barked in alarm as he suddenly slipped and fell arse over tit, flinging out an arm to catch himself. He hit the ground hard, heard a small snap!, and cried out in shock and pain. “Bloody hell!” 

Martha was whining from the other side of the fence but he scarcely noticed, curled into a ball against the onslaught of agony from his left arm. The sheep were useless lumps around him, eating their hay and watching the spectacle as if it were the morning telly. Paul squeezed his eyes shut and tried to gather his bearings. He could feel the cold mud seeping through the fabric of his clothes, and his arm felt like it was on fire, the throbbing ache of it derailing any train of thought. He breathed out slowly, _inhale one, two, three; exhale one, two, three,_ and tried to sit up. He was fairly certain that the bone was broken. 

Beyond the haze of pain, he heard the clatter of a door and footsteps thudding toward him. Words filtered through his mind as if they were shouted from some distant place: “Paul! Paul! Are y’alright, love?”

Paul blinked and then John was beside him, kneeling in the mud and cradling his face between his hands. “Paul?” he said again, “Paul, babe? What’s happened? Are’ye hurt?” He grew increasingly frantic as Paul didn’t respond, his eyes creased with concern. “Paul — ”

Paul willed away the gnawing urge to throw up. He didn’t know how long he had been lying on the ground, but it seemed like John had appeared astonishingly quick, as if he had teleported from their bed to the pasture in the short instant when Paul was tripping through the air. His confusion broke through the hurt. 

“John?” he asked between shuddering breaths. “John, why’re you up? The sheep — I slipped — ”

“Shh,” John hushed him quickly, carding Paul's hair back from his forehead. “It’s okay. You're alright. I was in a dream, and then I had this feelin’ — Martha was barkin’ — I knew somethin’ was wrong.” He peered closely into Paul’s eyes. “Tell us where it hurts, Paul. Can ye get up?”

Dark spots were dancing across Paul’s vision. “Give us a mo’,” he gasped. “Me left arm. I think I broke it.” The pain was unrelenting, pulsing in time with the thudding of his heart. When he craned his head to look, he noticed that his forearm was bent awkwardly, skewed like a tree branch against the muddy ground. 

John seemed to have noticed the same thing. “Come along now, Macca,” he soothed, affecting a faux-posh accent. “I think we ought to pay ol’ Doctor Robert a visit.” He gently maneuvered Paul onto his side, mindful of his left arm, and then proceeded to lift him bridal-style against his chest, heedless of the mud now caking both of their clothes. Paul was too delirious with pain to protest. 

“Oh god,” he groaned, pressing his head against John’s chest. “Hurts so bad, Johnny.” 

“I know, baby. Don’t worry, we’re gonna get ye fixed up, right as rain.” John was obviously trying to keep his voice light, but each syllable was wrapped with strain. “Now shut your gob for a second, yeah? Yer as heavy as shit.”

John was skinny in a way that worried Paul, sometimes. They were both off the drinking, the diets, and the drugs — besides the not-so-occasional spliff, which didn’t count — but he had never filled out the way old men seemed to do, his waist still as tapered and sharp as ever. Paul suspected that the reason for this could be the lingering trauma from their Beatle years, as if his body had internalized the rebellion against the press and their hateful comments, and so Paul tried to fatten him up at every chance he got. Despite his prevailing thinness, between Paul’s cooking, their joint bread-baking, their neighbours’ charity, and John’s sporadic, spur-of-the-moment decisions to help Paul around the farm, John had taken to the country nicely, and at almost fifty years old remained that strong, muscular boy that Paul had loved at fifteen. 

Paul was reminded of this fact as they staggered toward John’s beat-up Ferrari, his eyes squeezed tightly shut against the agony that flared with every step. He winced as John set him down lightly on the ground in order to open the passenger side door. He had a moment of clarity as John fumbled with his seat belt, his hair tickling Paul’s nose as he reached for the buckle. 

“You’re not drivin’,” Paul said into his hair, incredulous, because although he had probably broken his arm he didn’t actually plan on dying. 

“Are ye volunteerin’?” John huffed, looking up with an expression that said: _I love you, but you’re clearly a bit daft,_ and Paul faintly registered that yeah, John sometimes had a point. 

A moment later his seat belt was fastened and John was tumbling into the driver’s seat, a blur of muttered curses and fumbling keys. Focusing past the pounding agony, Paul noticed that John’s hands were shaking as he tried, unsuccessfully, to jam the keys into the ignition. “Fuckin’ hell!” he swore, and Paul felt a distant twinge of affection, the sight of John’s panic temporarily superseding the pain. 

“Oi,” he interrupted, fixing John with a look. The car finally stuttered to life, John’s hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel. Paul waited until he looked back at him. “John-love. It’s gonna be alright, yeah? I’m fine. I’ve a broken arm, not tuberculosis.” 

John barked a short laugh, twisting in his seat as he backed the car onto the road, but his eyes in the rearview mirror were squinted and creased with worry. That was when Paul noticed that something else was amiss. “‘Ang on, did you forget yer glasses?” 

“I was a wee bit preoccupied, Paul,” John snapped, but then immediately looked remorseful. He reached over and set his hand on Paul’s knee, drawing firm circles with the pad of his thumb. “’M sorry, love. You just gave me a scare. Keep yer eyes on the road for me, yeah?” 

“For the love of all that’s holy,” Paul sighed, but did as he was told, placing his good hand over the top of John’s and twining their fingers. As a teenager, he used to feel conflicted about how John’s hand dwarfed his own, torn between envy and attraction, but now he felt only comfort. Although John was driving carefully, Paul still gripped his hand tightly against the sparks of pain that screamed through his arm with every lurch of the car and bump in the road. Fortunately for them, their neighbourhood physician, Doctor Robert, lived only a few minutes’ drive from their farm. Paul only hoped that he would be awake at this early hour. Outside the car windows, the farmhouses and surrounding pastures were tinted golden with the rising sun. 

By some miracle, John managed to stay in the correct lane the entire route. He pulled into the drive with excruciating slowness, leaning over the steering wheel and peering nearsightedly out of the front windscreen. “Jesus bleedin’ Christ,” John hissed, glaring at every divot and pothole, and the sight of him taking parking so seriously was almost funny enough to distract Paul from everything else. They lurched to an unsteady stop, and Paul smiled gratefully as John hastened to open his door, helping him to his feet with a strong grip on his elbow. 

One of Doctor Robert’s roosters met them in the driveway, crowing at the top of its tiny lungs, and the old doctor himself was not far behind, wrapped in a housecoat and still wiping the remnants of sleep from his eyes. “John? Paul?” he called, striding up the laneway. “Is everything okay?”

Before Paul could even open his mouth, John was explaining everything in a rush. “Our boy Paul’s gone and broken his arm, here, sir,” he said all at once, wrapping his arm protectively around Paul’s waist. “Could ye take a look at ‘im?” 

“Och! Of course,” Doctor Robert said immediately, ushering them inside. “Come in, come in. Paul! It’s been a while, lad.” He eyed Paul’s skewed arm, thick white eyebrows drawn close together behind his thick spectacles. “How did ya manage such a thing?”

“The sheep lured me in and then left me for dead,” Paul griped, sitting gingerly on the makeshift examining table. John’s hand pressed insistently against the small of his back, and he subtly leaned against the warmth. 

“Evil buggers, aren’t they?” Doctor Robert said, appropriately sympathetic. He shone a light into each of Paul’s eyes. “Any confusion? Dizziness?”

“Besides the usual, ye mean,” John deadpanned, at the same time Paul said “no”. 

Laughing heartily, Doctor Robert tucked away his flashlight. “Right then. Let’s get an X-ray, shall we?”

John hovered in Paul’s peripheral vision as the morning slowly bled into the afternoon, nearly vibrating out of his skin with the force of his worry. When he wasn’t poking at some part of Paul, he was pestering Doctor Robert with questions, asking about the scans, the splint, the medication, recovery, how their age might affect the healing process. Paul drifted in and out of attention, already exhausted by the events of the day. He couldn’t wait to have John at home and wrapped around him, preferably in bed, with a good record in the background and his jokes in his ear. He looked at John tiredly, making eye contact across the room, and he was at Paul’s side immediately. 

“Alright?” he rasped, voice low, and Paul shook his head minutely. Running his fingers spider-style up Paul’s good arm, John gave the back of his neck a surreptitious squeeze. “Knackered, are ye? Oi, Robbie-boy!” he called. “Are you plannin’ on keepin’ our Paulie here fer observation, or can I take ‘im home with me now?”

Doctor Robert looked up from where he was counting pills into a small vial. “Aye, ye can take him home,” he chuckled. “I’m just prescribin’ these for the pain. Dinnae be afraid to take them, Paul.” He shook his finger mock sternly. “You’ll heal fine, but that there’s a nasty break.”

“Ah, thank you for all of your help,” Paul said sincerely. Since his left arm was now firmly secured in a splint, he used his right to shake Doctor Robert’s calloused hand. The action felt strange and foreign, like playing John’s guitar when his own was out of reach. He smiled through the discomfort. “I dunno what we would’ve done otherwise.” 

“I probably would’ve had to amputate,” John agreed, waggling his eyebrows. “And Paul threw out all our sharp objects ages ago.” 

Doctor Robert chortled again. He had a true Scotsman’s laugh, the kind that was loud and robust and filled up the entire room. “There’s a good lad,” he told Paul. “Now don’t be afraid to come back if ye need anythin’ else. I’ll want to be checkin’ on that arm again soon, as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Paul said dutifully, and then hopped down from the examining table. He teetered slightly on his feet, the pain medication already kicking in, but John was there in an instant with an arm curled securely around the dip in his waist. Paul flushed as he looked at Doctor Robert, feeling somewhat compromised, but his eyes only held a friendly glint. Despite never having told their neighbours the true nature of his and John’s long-term living arrangement, Paul suspected that they all knew anyway. Party invitations were always addressed to the both of them, and holiday cards were lovingly labeled with a scrawled _to-John-and-Paul_. Paul no longer cared about whose name came first. The tacit acceptance of their friends filled his heart with brimming warmth. 

The drive back home was a quiet one, with Paul falling in and out of sleep as their car rumbled over the Scottish countryside. The pain in his left arm, cradled against his chest, had dwindled into a nagging soreness. The radio was playing softly in the background, and he could feel John’s eyes roam over him every so often, humming the tune under his breath. Although he was exhausted, Paul felt warm and safe with John’s voice adorning the silence and sunlight playing over his eyelids, content and peaceful and lighter than air. 

He blinked himself to alertness as the car slowed to a stop. They were back in front of their farmhouse with its peeling, red-painted door and windswept brick exterior. The sun had long reached its peak and was now starting its slow descent down the sky. He could see old Martha in a furry heap by the door, obviously sound asleep and awaiting their return. The sight made him inexplicably happy. He rolled his head to look at John, smiling at him drowsily. 

John gave a quiet snort. “Look at the state of ye,” he said, smoothing Paul’s salt-and-pepper hair back from his eyes. “Yer properly doped up.” 

Paul yawned his assent and leaned further into John’s touch. “Do y’think you can walk?” John questioned, lips stretched into a teasing, boyish grin. “Or shall I lug yer great arse into the house again?”

Paul immediately flushed, then scowled in reply to John’s mean laugh. Grumbling all the while, he managed to heave himself out of the car and stumble inside, John’s hand in the small of his back and Martha flinging herself happily around them, no doubt feeling deprived of her usual treats and pats. After weaving their way down the hall, winding up the staircase, and finally falling through their bedroom door, Paul nearly groaned at the sight of their bed, thinking only of a good, long sleep. John, however, had other plans. With little ceremony, he sat Paul on the duvet and told him to stay put while he ran the tub. 

“You what?” Paul said incredulously, the words landing on John’s retreating back. “John, love, I’m dead tired. Can’t we just go kip?” 

The sound of water filling the bathtub was his reply, and Paul huffed in annoyance. John poked his head around the doorframe. “‘M not sleepin’ with ye lookin’ like that,” he laughed, taking in Paul’s clothes, still caked in mud and tufts of hay. “You’re right filthy, Macca. Mimi would’ve had yer head.”

“This isn’t Mendips,” Paul complained, but mustered up little resistance as John pulled him to his feet and then gently herded him toward the bathroom door. 

“Aye, smart lad,” John said, stripping off Paul’s clothing with little preamble. John was right — his trousers did look rather grubby against the stark white of the bathroom tile. “‘M dead thrilled to see that it’s only yer arm that’s broken.”

“Oh, piss off,” he retorted, but sighed as he stepped into the gradually-filling bath, slowly sinking down into the warm water with John’s steadying hand on his elbow. The water felt like pure bliss against his skin, especially after the sheep and dirt and antiseptic smell of Doctor Robert’s office. He blinked up at John, who he noticed was gathering his clothes into a mud-splattered bundle. 

“Now, don’t you be gettin’ that arm wet,” John warned, gesturing to Paul’s splint. “It’d be a right drag if it fell off, y’know.” He winked and hefted Paul’s clothes. “I’m just gonna give these a good soak, alright?” 

When Paul simply hummed a response, blissed out in his cocoon of soapsuds, something peculiar flickered across John’s expression. Without warning, he stooped down to give Paul a hard, closed-mouth kiss, charming in the way that he was careful not to jostle his arm. Giving a small noise of surprise, Paul leaned up into it, more than receptive, and pushed a soapy hand into John’s hair to angle him further downward. John’s mouth was warm and chapped and perfect; exactly what he needed. He moaned and chased the pressure. After a moment, John pulled away, resting his forehead against Paul’s and breathing harshly through his nose. Paul let out a noise of protest, trying to pull him back down, and John ducked to kiss him again. 

“Thank you,” Paul mumbled against his lips, and John flicked his forehead. 

“I’ll be back in a mo’,” he murmured, and then Paul was alone. 

He closed his eyes and sank deeper into the water, keeping his splinted arm propped up on the side of the bathtub. Although he and John divvied up the housework fairly equally, and only argued about such things when the mood struck them, it was still inexplicably nice to be relieved of all responsibility and be doted on, fussed over, and cared for. It was in quiet moments like these, when he was content and miles away on pain medication, that Paul was struck all at once by how lucky he was to have this life. It was not the future that he had imagined for himself as a young lad; in fact, it was far better. There was no predicting someone like John. He marveled at how fortunate they were to have found each other as skint, drain-piped Teddy boys, and to have kept finding each other through music, fame, grief, divorce. They had settled into their version of domesticity with the full-bodied passion with which they pursued most things in life, and they enjoyed it immensely. Now, as they both inched their way toward fifty years old, Paul could scarcely remember a time without John’s beery breath or nasally laugh; his dreams, his fears, his hands, his mouth. 

A brief knock against the bathroom door startled him out of his drifting thoughts, and he blinked as John’s head poked around the doorway. “How’re ye feelin’? he questioned, coming fully inside and shutting the door behind him to keep in the warm air. 

“Better,” Paul replied honestly, and smiled as John knelt by the tub with a groan that belied his age. They watched each other for a moment, letting the silence settle comfortably around them. When John propped his chin against the side of the bath Paul lifted a soapy hand out of the water to cup his face. The bags under his eyes seemed a little bit more prominent than they had this morning, dark and purple against his otherwise fair skin. As if echoing his thoughts, John yawned obnoxiously. 

“Oh, big day for you, was it?” Paul teased.

Without missing a beat, John slipped into a plummy Edinburgh accent, posh and lilting: “Ah, ‘twas a little taxing, darling, but who’s moaning? Not me!”

“I daresay there’s nothing like a bit of excitement to keep us on our toes,” Paul agreed, grinning as he matched John’s tone. 

“Aye, well there’s plenty of bones to break where that one came from, so I’ve been told.” 

Paul smothered a giggle. “Suppose we’ve good ol’ Robert to thank for that, bless his soul.” He gently hit John’s face, more of a caress than a slap. “Whatever was the reason for bringing up amputations back there, dearie?”

As fast as he had picked it up, John dropped the Edinburgh accent to fall into an American drawl, slurring his vowels like Clint Eastwood. “Now look here, boy,” he said, lips twitching. “I’m only suggestin’ that we cut along the dotted lines, ye get what I’m sayin’?” He traced Paul’s upper biceps to illustrate his point, his finger lightly smoothing over one arm before moving to the other. 

Paul raised an eyebrow. “Oh I get what you’re layin’ down, baby, I just ain’t never met a blind surgeon before, dig?”

“Slander! Hearsay!” John screeched in mock affront, falling about on the bathroom tile. Paul laughed at him as he hit his head off the toilet seat. “Ow,” he complained, rubbing the back of his skull. “There’s no respect in this house.”

“I’ll show ye respect,” Paul grunted, doing his best Jim McCartney.

John leered. “That a promise?”

When Paul found himself shivering in reply, John clambered to his feet and reached for a towel. “Y’think you're ready t’get out now?” Paul nodded and stood up with no little effort, suddenly feeling woozy and off-kilter from both the medication and the dead weight of his arm beside him. He reached for John and gingerly stepped out of the bath, stumbling into him a little as he overbalanced. 

“Whoops,” he giggled into John’s armpit, and allowed himself to be wrapped up like a human burrito and manhandled toward the bedroom. 

Dressing was a different story. Although they would prefer to sleep naked — as they used to in the early, heady days, when there was no need for clothes and every need to shag on each available flat surface — they had eventually agreed to start wearing sleep clothes after their former bandmates had demonstrated a shocking disregard for both knocking and proper house key etiquette. After traumatizing wee Georgie one too many times, John and Paul had conceded to cover up, but only minimally; without the shirt, pajama bottoms still allowed the skin-to-skin closeness that they both craved. 

Paul could recall the very first time they had realized the drawbacks of giving their bandmates a spare key to High Park Farm. “This isn’t 1950, y’know!” John had cried when he had inexplicably discovered George one day in their kitchen, cramming his gob with biscuits and probably overhearing God-knows-what. “You can’t just come bargin’ in here whenever y’want!” Paul had emerged from their bedroom a few moments later and merely smirked, hair disheveled and looking smug and satisfied. 

“Oh, hey Geo,” he’d said, scratching his stomach, as if the whole situation were completely normal, and John had fumed. (Despite his protests to the contrary, John secretly loved when George and Ringo came to visit them on the farm; he always made sure that they always had two guest bedrooms ready, just in case). 

Paul held onto John’s shoulder as he helped him step into his skivvies and then his pajamas, gently drawing the material up and over the jut of his hips. He hadn’t realized how impossible such simple things would be without the use of his dominant hand, but rather than being put off by it, he felt his blood stir as he watched John kneel in front of him to loop his feet through the fabric. Even at nearly fifty years old, he was still as devilishly handsome to Paul as he was at twenty. He looked particularly gorgeous in the low light, with his veined hands and messy hair, so fond and patient that Paul considered doing something about it, but his desire to go to sleep outweighed everything else. 

“That’s it, Paul, there ye go,” John said cheerily, helping him to wriggle on the bed, and Paul almost groaned in relief. He felt as if he were already half-asleep. John pulled the duvet over them both as they settled carefully onto their sides, and Paul found himself ending his day the way it had begun: in bed and nose-to-nose with John. When Paul shuffled closer, careful not to jostle his arm, a warm leg slid between his. A slow smile crept over Paul’s face, and he let his eyes flutter close. 

“G’night, Johnny,” he muttered sleepily, burrowing further into the pillows. 

Through the sweep of his eyelashes, he could see something rather complicated flit over John’s face, before his thick eyebrows unknit and his expression smoothed. “Sweetnight and good dreams, Paul,” he whispered back, snaking a hand around the curve of his waist. It was with John’s arms around him that Paul let slumber carry him away, whisking him head over heels into the dark. 

* * *

He was awoken sometime during the night by wandering hands and warm breath in his ear. “John?” Paul questioned, stretching languidly and blinking into the darkness. He was pleased to discover that Doctor Robert’s pills were working nicely; the excruciating pain in his lower arm was now a distant memory. He gasped as he felt the slick press of a tongue against his neck. “What time’s it?” 

“Paul,” John answered simply, voice low and rough. Paul’s eyes adjusted enough to make out his face through the dark, raw and intense as he pressed kisses to Paul’s ear, neck, shoulder. “Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul, Paul.” John’s hands swept over his body, warm and calloused and confident after decades of practice, and Paul arched into the touch. 

“John,” he gasped again, this time reaching out to cup John’s face. John immediately took hold of his wrist and turned to plant an open-mouthed kiss against the palm of his hand, causing Paul to exhale shakily. “What’s got you?”

Ignoring the question, John swung a leg over Paul’s waist and hauled himself upward, gently coming to straddle Paul, who was watching him with wide, confused eyes. The duvet slipped from John’s shoulders to pool around his waist, and Paul’s nipples hardened at the sudden shock of cold. “I want you, Paulie,” John growled, voice breaking slightly as he pressed their lower halves together. When he began moving his hips in tiny circles Paul threw his head back against the pillow, immediately overcome with pleasure, everything multiplied tenfold the way it always was with John. “I need ye.” 

There was something dark in John’s eyes, something too-charged and overly intense in the way he regarded Paul — desperate and needful, lips parted like he was starving. Paul mustered up enough clarity of mind to place a quelling palm against John’s hip, urging him to pause his movements. “John, darlin’. Is everythin’ alright?”

Rather than answer, John growled in annoyance, grabbing Paul’s good hand and placing it on the crest of his arse with little preamble. He tried to move again but Paul brought his hand up to frame his face, forcing him to meet his eyes. Paul waited patiently, more than used to John’s moods and their constant swinging, one eyebrow arching high and expectant upon his forehead. John merely looked at him impassively. His eyes, though they were blown wide with desire and the dark, were carefully guarded. 

Paul sighed in exasperation. “Love, just tell us what’s wrong.”

The air was quiet around them, broken only by the soft sounds of their breathing. Paul’s thumb slowly stroked the hollow of John’s cheek, over the tired lines of his face, and the tiny gesture seemed to shake something loose in John as his expression crumbled all at once in the palm of Paul’s hand.

“I just — I just had a dream this morning, y’know, that y’were hurt. And I woke up feelin’ like absolute shite and I just _knew_ — I just knew that somethin’ awful had happened. Then I saw ye, lyin’ there on the ground, and I thought… I just thought — ”

Like water bursting from a dam, tears had begun streaming down John’s face, and Paul tried frantically to wipe them away. “Oh, John,” he said, his own eyes welling. “‘M sorry I gave you such a fright. I didn’t think about what it would’ve been like for you.” John’s breath was coming out in big, shuddering sobs, and Paul did his best to gather him against his chest, angling him away from his splinted arm. He held John’s head against his neck and stroked a hand through his hair. “Shh now, yer alright,” he soothed. “I’m sorry. It’s okay, now. I’m okay.”

“But y’weren’t okay!” John exclaimed, pulling back to regard Paul with red-rimmed eyes. “I dreamt that y’were gone, and that I was all alone, and then I went outside and y’were so still, Paul. _You were so still_. And I thought that my dream’d come true.” He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, and despite both of them nearing the tail end of their forties, Paul thought that he had never looked more like a lost little boy. His heart ached, and he thought about how remarkable and terrifying it was to be growing old with the other half of your heart. 

“You can’t leave me, Paul,” John continued, voice cracking, and Paul choked on a swell of emotion. “I couldn’t bear it, y’know. I’d die. Please, Paulie, don’t leave me, I can’t lose you, you’re my whole world.”

Awash in a tide of inarticulate feeling, Paul pulled John down into a bruising kiss, their teeth clashing violently with the force of it. John’s mouth tasted like salt and home. “And you're mine,” Paul growled against his lips. “You know that, John, y’know you’re mine. I’ll never leave you.”

John sobbed harder at that and suddenly they couldn’t seem to get close enough, surging together with a passionate intensity that left Paul tender and aching. His heart twisted as he thought of John, carrying him across the muddy pasture; John, sweet and concerned at Doctor Robert’s; John, running him a bath and washing his clothes. John, pretending to be strong all day for Paul’s sake when he really, really wasn’t. Paul moaned against his lips, grabbing and caressing everywhere at once, trying to make up for only having the use of one arm. John was a solid weight in his lap, pliant and squirming with the vulnerability that he always tried so hard to quash. 

Paul licked his way into his mouth and tugged at his hair, tasting the lingering remnants of tears and the toothpaste that they both shared, seeking comfort in the body more familiar to him than his own. His hips thrusted upward on instinct, chasing the desire to be as close to John as possible. John broke the kiss with a gasp, panting against Paul’s mouth as he drove his hips back against his lap. “Oh Paul,” he muttered, almost nonsensical. “Fuck me, love, please, oh fuck me fuck me please please please.”

“Yeah?” Paul asked, lightheaded and breathless, wondering in a moment of shocking sound-mindedness how far they could actually go without injuring his arm all over again. It wasn’t as if they’d cleared a list of pre-approved activities with Doctor Robert. 

Reading his mind, John ducked down to gently press his lips against Paul’s arm. “We’ll go slow,” he promised, meeting Paul’s gaze, pupils black and blown open with desire. “Please, Paulie, just have me, fuck me. I need ye.”

“Alright,” Paul breathed, because it wasn’t like he was going to say no, not when the need to be with John licked like fire through his veins. They kissed again, John moving against him with renewed intent and mounting urgency. Heat curled in Paul’s belly as John kissed his way down his chest, pausing to suck on each nipple in a way that he knew drove Paul mad. Paul’s hips pushed up, seeking friction, and John huffed a laugh. He moved further down Paul’s body, a bit of his characteristic glint back and shining in his eyes. 

“Patience,” he chastised, then tugged Paul’s trousers and jocks down in one smooth motion, Paul carefully lifting his hips to help. His cock slapped against his stomach, red and angry, and John kissed it reverently before leaving the bed. Desire pooled in the pit of Paul’s stomach as he watched John root around in their bedside drawer, hot and tangled and insistent. Even snot-nosed and sleep-deprived, John was still unfairly attractive: his legs were endless, his posture long and lean, his skin pale and unmistakably freckled in the dark. Paul swallowed around the lump in his throat, feeling soft and mawkishly lucky. 

Letting his pajamas join Paul’s in a careless heap on the floor, John crawled back into Paul’s lap, clutching their preferred bottle of lube triumphantly in his hand. He tilted forward to kiss Paul once, twice, before sitting back and studying him in a way that made Paul feel slightly self-conscious. “Pretty Paulie,” John mumbled, seemingly half to himself, and Paul felt himself flush. 

“Shurrup,” he complained, but almost immediately fell into a moan as John rocked back against his cock, the abrupt shove and drag sending sparks of pleasure along his spine. Paul pulled him down into another searing kiss, then let his hand trail down the broad expanse of his back to the pale swell of his arse. 

“Oh god, John,” he said, feeling the place where John’s fingers were already disappearing inside of his own body. The sensation was surreal and arousing. Paul scrambled for the lube, uncapping the bottle with one hand and squirting a generous amount on his fingers. John whined as Paul’s finger traced his entrance, his own two fingers already thrusting in and out, twitching a little at the brief shock of cold. Inserting his finger alongside John’s, Paul shuddered as John stretched to welcome him, so warm and tight and still ready for more. 

“Oh, God, you’re perfect, baby, y’feel so good,” Paul praised, and John keened, spreading his legs further. 

Like polar magnets, their lips drew back together, and they kissed passionately, ravenously; John breathing harshly through his nose and emitting small, involuntary noises against Paul’s mouth. 

“I’m ready, love,” he grunted after a while, and Paul removed his fingers with a wet sound. 

“Yeah?” he asked, reaching over to pour more lube onto his cock. It was aching against his stomach, large and swollen. When John bit his lip and nodded, watching him with heavy, half-lidded eyes, Paul was struck with an overwhelming tide of affection. Looking past the urgent arousal that hummed between them, he reached up and ran his hand through John’s hair, smiling softly as pleasure flitted over John’s expression. Although his hair wasn’t as thick as it had been during their Beatle years, it was still soft and full, the years of Scottish sunshine having coaxed out the strands of red until it shone. “I love ya, y’know,” Paul told him, feeling as if he ought to be reminded. 

“Prove it,” John smirked, then without warning reached backward, lined himself up, and slowly sank onto Paul’s shaft. 

“Jesus!” Paul choked, white-knuckled against the bedsheets. John was tight — tighter than anything, tighter than imagining — and feverishly hot, his body swallowing Paul’s length with an ease that made them both groan. Usually, they both tended to switch positions often, depending on their mood and John’s star alignments and what have you, but for Paul this part never got old: John’s body quivering around his cock, his eyes screwed up with concentration and pleasure, a red flush staining his cheeks, fused together the way they both always craved — inseparable. 

Paul closed his eyes and tried to focus on not coming immediately, feeling as if he were standing on the edge of some great cliff and ready to fall, even after all these years. While John adjusted to the feel of him, chest heaving against the strain, Paul crawled his fingers up John’s muscled thigh, over his arse and down to the place where they were connected, groaning helplessly at the tight clench. John gasped at the feeling and then started to move, experimentally at first, becoming accustomed to the movement of Paul inside of him, before setting a pace that had Paul twisting against the bedsheets. 

“Fuck, John,” he managed. The solid weight of John flush against him, the feeling of him wrapped hot and vice-like around his prick, was unlike anything else. “Yer so good, yeah, c’mon, baby, yeah, yeah, yeah.”

John tilted his head back and moaned, eyes screwed shut and mouth agape, looking blissed-out and lovely as he fucked himself on Paul’s cock. He kept his movements slow and deliberate, the wiry muscle of his biceps straining to support himself on Paul’s chest, his thighs flexing to find the perfect angle. They were both far too gone far too soon, but it didn’t matter — Paul craved the complete and utter fulfillment of release, the visceral, bone-deep satisfaction that he only got from good rock ‘n’ roll and sex with John. Desire thrummed through him, reverberating through his spine, up through his cranium, and out of his mouth as he gasped a steady stream of praise into the still night air. 

John’s prick was swollen and leaking copiously, precome spilling onto Paul’s stomach, and Paul began to stroke him as he leveraged himself up and down. “Fuck yeah,” John grunted, squeezing even tighter around Paul, who whined and surrendered to the white-hot pleasure. Planting his feet on the mattress, he thrust up into John one, two, three times before he was coming, spilling deep and boundless into John’s tight passage. John cried out at the feeling of being filled, chanting _yes yes yes yes yes_ and _I love you I love you I love you,_ before coming soon after with a low, broken moan. Breath coming in short, desperate gasps, he carefully lowered himself against Paul’s chest, tucking his head into the curve of his neck as their heartbeats thudded in chorus.

“Alright?” Paul questioned, dizzy and out of breath, and felt it when John nodded.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” he breathed. A tad reticently, he sat up enough to let Paul slip out of him, then immediately shifted closer again, twining their legs together and ignoring the sweat and come cooling on Paul’s stomach, leaking down the back of his thighs. “And yer arm?”

“Grand, with you doin’ all the work.” Paul huffed a short laugh and held John tighter. After everything that had happened, he felt as if they were okay enough for him to joke: “Maybe I should break me other arm, after that show.”

John lifted his head so quickly to glare at Paul that it almost gave him whiplash. “Don’t even think about it,” he threatened. “Or I’ll break it for ya.” 

With his squinted eyes and sex-mussed hair, the warning was almost comical, but Paul knew better than to laugh. He settled for pressing his lips against John’s, trying to convey his gratitude, and mumbling, “Ah, ye love me.”

John hemmed and harrumphed, but the way he brought Paul a glass of water and a wet flannel, tucking the duvet just-so around his splinted arm to keep it from getting too hot during the night, and promptly wrapped himself around him like a human plaster — making soft, snuffling noises into Paul’s ear — Paul knew the truth of the matter. He drifted off with John’s hair tickling his nostrils, his heart full and teeming with contentment, feeling safe and tucked away in John’s arms. 

* * *

The slide into awareness was a slow one, with Paul first becoming aware of the sunlight on his face, then a low ache in his arm, and finally the empty side of the bed where John should be. The room was colder than a witch’s tit and Paul felt sore and grumpy, his mood not even improved by a full glass of water on the bedside table, two pills, and a hastily-scrawled reminder from John to take said pills. He downed them passive-aggressively, irritated by both the pain and by the feeling of being utterly useless. He jammed his feet into his beloved slippers, glaring at them and steadily becoming sick at the thought that maybe John was right: perhaps he was just a feckin’ old man from Liverpool, a fool who had deluded himself into thinking that growing old was something to look forward to. If the ache in his arm was anything to go by, it clearly wasn’t. Paul had never felt more his age. 

The sound of a guitar playing faintly from somewhere on the main floor only served to piss him off further. Why was John playing his guitar, on today of all days, when he knew that Paul couldn’t play his? The action felt cruel and hostile. Paul threw open the bedroom door and stormed down the stairs, ready to give John a piece of his mind, but he was stopped short by the scene before him. 

John was seated loose and cross-legged in their rickety wooden walking chair, positioned by the window so that they could sit and look out at the distant sea. He had his guitar propped on his lap and Martha lounged happily at his feet, playing the part of the attentive audience as John strummed. The morning sun trickled through the window and painted the room with streaks of yellow and gold, illuminating the specks of dust that fluttered in the air and giving the room an airy, dream-like quality. It suited John perfectly: his hair was streaked with red and bronze, the light emphasizing the slope of his nose, the stern set of his brows. 

He was looking down at his guitar with a look of unbridled peace, his features smoothed with the balm of music, and he only glanced up as Paul came into the room. The open adoration on his face made Paul’s heart stutter in his chest. He forgot why he had originally come barreling downstairs as John laid his guitar on the floor and rose to his feet, padding over to Paul and pecking him sweetly on the lips. “Sleep alright, babe?” John queried, stroking a hand over his arm, and Paul couldn’t help but smile, his anger fizzling as quick as it had started in the wake of John’s easy morning affection. 

It was unusual for John to be up and about before him, so it was with an air of unsettled amusement that Paul allowed himself to be tugged into the sunlit room. As John fell back into the rocking chair, Paul stooped down to greet Martha, giving her a good morning scratch behind her ears. 

“Showin’ off?” Paul asked, nodding at the guitar by his feet, and John grinned. 

“Never,” he said. He pulled it back onto his lap. 

“Bollocks.”

John stuck his tongue out childishly, shifting a little as he got comfortable, all legs and loose hips. “I actually wrote something for ye,” he said, scratching the back of his head. The way he looked at Paul was almost bashful. “A song. Could do with yer thoughts, y’know, if ye feel inclined to give ‘em.”

Paul snorted, coming to perch across from John on the windowsill. He knocked his feet against John’s. “Another Lennon-McCartney original? Let’s hear it, then.”

“Hang on, hang on,” John said, abruptly flustered, tuning pegs that were already tuned. “Let me just — are ye ready?”

“Yes, dear,” Paul said, more than slightly jealous of the way John’s arm curled around the guitar, his strong fingers finding their chords easy and unhindered. “Just get on with it.”

“‘Just get on with it,’ he says!” John exclaimed. “Pushy today, are we?”

“Yer mockin’ my pain,” Paul muttered, staring at John’s guitar accusingly. “Y’know I can’t play with you.”

Understanding dawned over John’s face. “For Pete’s sake, Paul, yer not sore about the forced retirement, are ya?” Met with Paul’s sulky stare, John just laughed. “Christ! The man works like there’s a fire under his arse for three decades and still can’t take a wee break. It’s a break for a break, Paul, get it? Ha!”

“You’re cruel,” Paul said, unimpressed.

“And you’re incorrigible.” With another breathy laugh, John returned his focus back to his guitar. “Look, Paul,” he started, keeping his eyes fixed on the frets. “Just ‘cause you can’t play fer a bit doesn’t mean we can’t still make music, yeah? Actually, for this one, I’d rather you pay attention to the words.”

Paul was intrigued. “What d’ye mean?” 

Squaring his shoulders, John looked at Paul, his eyes warm and honey-brown behind his thin glasses. “Well, I sorta wrote this one with you in mind.”

Paul was startled into a laugh. “Babe, we write all our songs for each other.”

“Yeah, well this one’s different,” John defended. “After last night… I just had some things that I wanted t’say to you.”

“Well go on then!” Paul crowed, delighted. He made a show of posing against the light of the window, fluttering his eyelashes and injecting his voice with a high-pitched lisp. “Tell us how handsome I am!”

John rolled his eyes at Paul’s antics, lips twitching against a smile. “Don’t think y'need me for that, darlin’.”

Paul mock pouted. “What else could it be about?” 

“Well…” John cleared his throat and then began to strum. Like a switch, the mood turned quiet and earnest as the song started its meandering cadence. Just when Paul thought, _oh, this might do well on piano,_ John started singing. His voice was still the best sound that Paul had ever heard, rough and nasally and just as compelling as it was that day long ago at the Woolton fete. Fighting the urge to immediately join him in harmony, Paul tried his best to focus on the lyric. 

_Grow old along with me_   
_Whatever fate decrees_   
_We will see it through_   
_For our love is true._

_Grow old along with me_   
_Two branches of one tree_   
_Face the setting sun_   
_When the day is done._

_Spending our lives together…_

There was a hush when John finished, voice trailing off with the final note, and they watched each other quietly: John palpably nervous, awaiting Paul’s reaction; Paul thinking about how ridiculous it was that he was a fully grown man about to cry twice in less than twenty-four hours. Swallowing past the lump in his throat, Paul stood and gently tugged John’s guitar from his grip, carefully lowering himself onto his lap. John watched him through long lashes, lips parted in a silent “oh”. Spurred by the warmth that pooled certain and potent in his chest, Paul drew his hand up into John’s soft, auburn hair and kissed him — kissed him for their music, kissed him for Liverpool and Hamburg and Paris, kissed him for Beatlemania and their tiny slice of Scotland, kissed him for their nights and for all of their days. They laughed into each other’s mouths, giddy like teenagers, and when they separated John broke into a toothy grin, flushed and happy. 

“So Paulie, whaddya say?”

Paul smoothed over the lines and wrinkles of John’s face with the pad of his thumb. He liked to imagine that he had helped put them there, but more than that, he couldn’t wait to discover more laugh lines, scars, freckles, memories. They say that life begins at 40, but every day Paul felt as if theirs had just begun. And didn’t that say something, that every kiss felt like the first?

Paul pushed his bottom lip out and pretended to ponder John’s question, ever the performer, but he knew that his answer was already spelled out in the lines of his own face. 

“I say, Johnny, the best is yet to come.”


End file.
